Bad
by GrrHatLet
Summary: Uncle Vernon finally takes Harry to St. Brutus'. Just to show him how bad it could be if he steps out of line. What he doesn't know is that visit would go a little less than he'd hoped… End of first chapter edited slightly.


"And _this_," the matron sneered, a woman with high boots, short temper, and what looked like a stick with a loop behind her back, "is where naughty little boys like you go when they've all misbehaved."

Harry shuffled in line as he stared up at Uncle Vernon, who only sneered back at the boy with a seedy look on his face. St. Brutus' was definitely a place he had no desire to go.

Beside him, to his right—Harry was the last on that end—an aisle of several other boys stood in wait. One directly beside him was tall, blonde hair, and a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his shoulders (there was a package of some kind tucked underneath one). On _his_ right stood another boy with reddish-brown, greasy hair falling down to his shoulders. On his right another tall boy, with a vague but frightened look in his eyes. And on the far _left_ of them, was a boy Harry had trouble seeing. He looked tall enough to be 13 or 14, although his features gave him away to be about Harry's age. He had black hair, brown eyes, and a sort of…unsettling haze about him. He did not flinch once as the matron spoke.

The wiry woman—with a tight bun revealed as she did an about face—led them all down a corridor, while the boys and Uncle Vernon trailed behind her. Harry noticed none of these boys had any escorts themselves.

It was a dingy place, St. Brutus'. Cold and unwelcoming, but when one bore in mind what sort of _people_ ended up here, it was the perfect setting for the incurably criminal. Except maybe some of those boys _weren't_ incurably criminal; maybe some of those boys who came here were like Harry.

Unwanted.

When they finally stopped, it was at a small, eerie, uncomfortable room and the woman slouched down at them with a vicious look in her eyes. Harry was reminded of pickled prunes as he took in her lips and her face.

She shared a look with Uncle Vernon, who nodded, and smiled at her like this was the best place in the world, before turning her gaze on them yet again.

"You will remain here." She ordered, and not a word broke room for disobedience. "If I hear _one sound_ while I'm gone, I can see to it that it will be a _very long_ time before you see sunlight again."

The boys didn't move, Harry among them, and Uncle Vernon and the matron turned and disappeared into an office shortly across the room. When they were gone the older boys started to scoff. The tallest boy, the one with blonde hair, uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumb in the direction of the door.

"Can you believe that-" He said a word Harry wouldn't _dare_ allow himself to use, especially with a less-than-friendly lady across the room, with something as flimsy as a door between.

The other boys immediately laughed and started half-punching and nudging each other on the back. Harry just wondered why they weren't being quiet—unless they _wanted_ to get themselves thrashed by that haggard woman. The blonde boy suddenly rounded on him, and he leaned so low Harry didn't realize he was only half his height.

"So," he sneered, "what're you in for, short-stuff?"

Harry shuffled back and looked up to see the other 2 boys looking at him as well. The 3rd boy hadn't moved where he stood—if anything he looked a little bored.

"He don't look like much," the red-head commented.

Blondie scoffed. "Probably just here 'cause they're trying to scare 'em." He leaned closer. "Is that it, half-pint? You wanna grow up to be a good little boy?"

Harry merely stared.

The blonde boy stood back up and crossed his arms. "'Course, there are _a lot_ of ways good kids go bad," Harry thought he saw his eyes dart to the mysterious little boy off far from them, but he just sneered and hawked over Harry as he reached into his pocket, "want me to think up a few?"

The two boys behind him sniggered, and sneered at Harry much like he did. Harry was reminded of the boys involved with Dudley's gang: tall, strong, but undoubtedly stupid. Harry stared at the tallest boy, then the red-head, then the wiry-eyed. Then he looked back at the black-haired boy, who still stood by idly. He was highly calm for the situation around him.

Then he looked back at the taller boy in front of him and said, "No thanks, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

The sneer disappeared off the tallest of the boys, and the other two stared at him with shock. The 5th boy only kept to himself.

Unfortunately for Harry, this boy wasn't as stupid as Dudley.

He wrenched him up by the shirt and Harry was left dangling his legs as his hands gripped weakly around the nameless bully's tanned arm. The taller boy's hand finished reaching downward…only to pull a knife from his pocket.

Harry's eyes widened.

"Little wisearse, huh?" He said, not so teasing anymore. Behind him the other two boys looked uncomfortable, but mostly looked at the ground and shuffled their feet. Harry finally caught the 5th boy's attention on them, but it was bland, unconcerned, and within moments Harry's vision was blocked by a ray of sunlight—shortly after he heard a sharp _click!_

He saw the knife reaching his face.

"Let's see how smart you talk when I chop that tongue right out of you."

It happened so fast Harry didn't really know what did.

One minute bully's hand was in the air, ready to gore him while he was airborne and helpless, the next…

He couldn't really move at all.

The other two boys stared in shock for a moment. The room was so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Before finally one of the older boys stepped forward. "…Billy?"

The blonde-haired boy—"Billy" as he was identified—simply stared at Harry with a strained look on his face. His cheeks began turning purple. The knife didn't move from its mount in the air, but Harry could see the wrist below it popping a few veins. Now both of the older boys had stepped forward.

"Billy? C'mon mate, what's up?" The one with blue eyes—the one Harry wouldn't want to be in a closed room with—poked him in the shoulder.

Billy groaned as he tried to move his arm—either of them—but nothing happened.

Harry gasped; this stuff never happened with _people_ before.

"WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

Harry was abruptly dropped to the floor, and he looked up to see the boys—Billy included—gazing like a herd of deer in the headlights at one _very_ angry, nameless woman (Harry noted that she gave them her name at the beginning of this "trip", but he was too busy staring at her horse whip to remember—Uncle Vernon said they weren't strangers to flogging people at St. Brutus' and he wondered if that just applied to students). It seemed Billy was now in control of his arm again and unfortunately for him—fortunately for Harry—it was the same arm in plain view of the office door he held the knife in.

The matron literally stormed across the room, and _now_ Harry saw why she worked here: without even blinking she snagged Billy's ear in one hand and twisted his wrist behind his back with the other. The knife dropped to the floor. The other boys backed away fearfully, except for the young one of course.

"YOU'RE HURTING MY ARM, YOU-" he said the nasty word again and Harry honestly _did_ wonder if or not he cared for a flogging. He'd certainly had enough from Dudley as his gang to know he'd like to avoid them at every turn.

Despite that Billy was obviously a very strong young man—or maybe it was just because he held him up one-handed earlier—Nameless Matron held him like he was nothing. She kicked the knife to the other side of the room, and pulled him to her so Billy's ear would be within shouting distance.

"Didn't I warn you before I left? Mrs. Cole's going to get an earful about this!"

Billy scoffed. "Yeah, whatever."

She steered the boy to the end of the hall, where the door leading out was waiting. Then she snapped her head in the direction of the two others. "COME!" She shouted and they immediately filed after her like ducklings out of the room.

No one but Harry seemed to notice only the small boy remained.

When they were gone, Harry heard his uncle letting out a very long breath. He looked up, and saw he was very pale—paler than a ghost, even. He shakily glanced down at Harry, but other than that made no move toward him. After a moment, he gestured to the door.

"C'mon boy," he said, lumbering in his way, "let's go home…" Without another word he left for Harry to follow.

Harry took a step forward, but then looked back to see the boy was glancing at the knife. When he gazed up, he unwittingly locked eyes with Harry.

Harry shuffled on his feet.

"Um, hello…"

The boy stared at him.

"Are…" he cleared his throat, "are you here with them?" He pointed to the door.

The boy examined him a moment; Harry saw his brown eyes work up and over his frame. "…How did you do that?"

Harry blinked. "Do what?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Stop him."

Harry gulped, and was suddenly feeling like the boy could see right through him. He broke his gaze away, and bunched his fists at his stomach.

"Well, I just did." Harry simply said, because anytime these "accidents" (that was what his Aunt and Uncle called them) happened to him, they really _did_ just happen.

He didn't know how.

The boy's eyes narrowed even further, and Harry didn't think it was possible for a child his age to look so sinister. "Who are you?"

Again he blinked. "I'm Ha-"

"BOY!" Harry jumped, and the nameless boy immediately turned his head to see a portly man lumbering back through the doorway. "I said we're going home!" He glowered, any type of pseudo-concern (the best and only type Harry had ever gotten from him) completely gone. "What are you waiting for? Do you _want_ to stay here?" Instantly Harry shook his head. The boy became silent again. Uncle Vernon cast him a glance, looked indifferent, and then squinted his beady eyes at him. "Well get going!" He ordered, and Harry hastily left, leaving the boy and the room and the knife.

And a memory:

Yes, he did definitely _not_ want to end up at St. Brutus'.

* * *

_The next day_…

"So, how did it go, Vernon?" Aunt Petunia asked as she poured Mr. Dursley his morning coffee. Harry glanced up from where he'd set the bacon in the pan, but no look was sent his way.

Vernon looked at his wife for a moment, before setting down his newspaper and reaching across the table. "Pass me those rolls, would you Dudley?"

Across the table, Harry's fat cousin—not "plump", not "big-boned", not "stoutly"—stuffed his face full of the hotcakes Harry had served to him only minutes ago. He looked at his father with a face cloaked in syrup, then right at Harry.

"Oi…" He said, somehow swallowing that hippo of a mouthful he impressively spoke through, "how come you haven't said anything since you got back?" He stuffed another mouthful in he'd stabbed onto his fork. The kitchen filled with the wonderful smells of butter and syrup, but Harry wouldn't be tasting any of it (he'd be lucky if they'd let him have their leftovers).

"That's enough hotcakes for now, Dudley; have some sausages instead." Vernon turned from the table. "Boy, where're the sausages?"

Harry sent him a scowl his way, before turning back to the pan. The sausages he hadn't pulled out yet; he always liked to fry the bacon first so he wouldn't have to worry about slicking the pan when it was time for everything else. Hotcakes were an exception, as Mrs. Dursley had her own "special recipe" that couldn't be toyed with—unless Dudley had been particularly hungry. Whatever his cousin craved for…

"Oi!" The little Dursley piped up from his chair, surprising he could stand from it that quickly. "You didn't cook enough eggs, I'm _starving!_ And where's the rest of the hotcakes?! I barely got any syrup from that last batch! And you burnt the toast! _MU-UM!"_

Mrs. Dursley was at her son's side at an instant. "There, there, Dudders," she cooed, "mummy will just wake him up earlier for next time."

Oh, perfect. Simply, bloody _perfect_.

Harry fought the scowl lurking under his face as Aunt Petunia caught him staring. "Don't just stand there! Start on the bacon!"

Harry got a _little_ satisfaction as he served up the bacon without even breaking eye contact. Aunt Petunia huffed and started pouring hotcake batter into the frying pan after pouring out the greasy substance. Now Harry would have to use butter to cook the—

"I don't want bacon!" Dudley fumed (but sneered at Harry behind his mother's back). "I want sausage!"

Harry slammed the serving plate on the table. "WHY DON'T YOU COOK YOUR OWN BLOODY SAUSAGE?!"

Dudley blinked, at a sheer loss for words. Petunia gaped over the sizzling hotcakes, before storming right over and snatching up his ear. "Just for that you'll go straight to the cupboard without breakfast—after you've cut his hotcakes."

Harry figured as much, and when Aunt Petunia practically flung the butter knife at him, he figured it wasn't getting any worse today:

"Cut your own hotcakes! I've had enough knives thrown at me for one week!"

Uncle Vernon sputtered over his coffee and Aunt Petunia practically shrilled.

"NOW you've upset your uncle! Go to your cupboard! You ungrateful _nuisance!_"

Nuisance, freak, it was all the same to him. With a sturdy glare, he marched right out of the kitchen and stowed himself in his cupboard. Where he stewed for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Odd? What do you mean 'odd'?" The mother (or mother-to-be, technically) inquired.

Mrs. Cole wrung her hands behind her desk as the couple in front of her stared at her expectantly. They were a nice, average pair. Perfectly capable of giving a child a loving home. Probably sterile, she guessed. They had come in and asked for a boy and the moment they walked in Tom had walked by to place a book he'd finished reading on the top shelf. The woman seemed taken with him almost immediately, and he _did_catch the father's eye. When they asked about _him_, Mrs. Cole was at a loss for what to say to them.

"It's…a lot of families he's been with don't seem…taken, with the boy. We think he's a bit…different, you see."

The father creased his eyes, crossing his long arms loosely. "Is he mental?" He inquired bluntly.

"I don't believe so, no." Mrs. Cole replied. "But he _is…_"

The couple in front of her waited patiently to reply. Mrs. Cole felt rather suffocated sitting in this cold room already. She didn't like to be in here as it was and already, she could feel her hand twitched as it ached to reach for the drawer which held all the answers to her problems…

But this was an interview, and not a place for that. …Later, perhaps. Yes, that sounded terrific.

"Is what?" The mother inquired, looking quite young, the matron noted. Not nearly old as her; in fact, she looked no older than the woman who gave birth to Tom herself. Again Mrs. Cole repressed a shudder at the places that woman could have been, could have come from (the poor dear), before what landed her here before her death._  
_

She gazed up at the couple.

"…Are you sure you wouldn't like another boy? There are many who haven't been tried yet."

The woman turned to her husband defiantly. "I want _him_," she asserted. "He has your eyes."

"We have plenty of boys with brown eyes," Mrs. Cole stepped in (she didn't even know Tom _had _brown eyes until this moment).

"The boy's adorable, and he looked right at us when we came in, and I have a feeling he'll grow to be quite handsome." Her attention returned to Mrs. Cole. "So why can't we have him?"

Mrs. Cole kneaded her lip. "He's…" How could she explain the…things that happened around him without sounding mad? Tom didn't come off as an ill-behaved child, as he did…unusual (for an instance, Mrs. Cole had actually entertained the idea that that girl came from some kind of_voodoo_ family, but dismissed the thought). But was it a coincidence when Tom was angry, Amy's new dress caught fire (thank goodness she hadn't been wearing it)? Or when a nurse sent Tom to bed one evening without supper, the roast became completely charred? Or when a group of little boys teased him too much, they'd somehow ended up unconscious? Mrs. Cole couldn't explain those accidents, and she couldn't really say Tom had done all that—for Tom was a _child _for heaven's sake—but there was _something _going on at those times.

The man stroked his mustache for a moment, then said, catching both woman's attention, "We'll take a looksee." He rose and straightened his jacket. "I saw some older boys out back." His wife looked absolutely crestfallen, but her husband took her face in his palms and said, "I just don't like all this funny business she keeps talking about."

"But what could a 12-year-old possibly do?" She cooed.

"9." Mrs. Cole corrected.

The man blinked. "You must be joking! Surely the _size_ of the boy-"

"He is tall for his age," she'd give them that with a nod, "but I can assure you, he's only 9. Going 10 in December."

"December?" The woman blinked. "Oh," she gazed at the floor, "what a terrible month for a birthday…"

Mrs. Cole (and her husband) threw her an odd look.

"Well think about it," she assured, "there'll be Christmas, and New Year's, and on top of that my _husband_ was born that month. It'd be simply too hectic for a child." She took her husband's arm, and patting it dotingly. "We'll take a look at the lot of them. Hopefully some that were born more conveniently."

Mrs. Cole arched a brow at the woman, but simply led them outside.

"I'm sure we have some boys that will fit your liking," she assured as her voice and their footsteps echoed through the atrium as they passed through it. Below her, a boy sat quietly at the bottom of the stairwell, missing her gaze. But she wasn't the one whose attention he was waiting to gain.

His brown eyes turned up to them, hopefully, and for a moment the couple did stop to stare in his way, but simply followed Mrs. Cole again, catching up with her to go outside…

To the playground…

To the other children…

When they came back, Mrs. Cole staggered to see the all front windows shattered.

* * *

I don't really know where this will go, I just wrote it up and there it was. We'll see what happens.


End file.
